“Behr, it’s Decker,” the voice came through his cell phone gruff and friendly. “What the hell’s up?”
“Not a thing,” Behr said, his breathing still returning to normal, as he walked out of the casino.
“What are those bells?”
“Just someplace I’m leaving,” Behr said, the double doors to the casino sliding shut behind him.
“Sounds like a bachelor party.”
“Long way from a party,” Behr said, nearing his car.
That pair of rabid attack-dog son of a bitches had almost truly uglified his day.
“Heading up to Lowell Gantcher’s office,” Behr had declared when he’d walked up to them and was challenged.
“You have an appointment?” the first one had asked, a hard layer of unwelcome in his tone.
“Want to go up and make one,” Behr said.
“Go somewhere else and call to do that,” the other said.
Behr pulled out his Caro business card. “Look, buddy, I’m in the trade. I’m not gonna go up there and do anything but request a time. How about a little professional courtesy?”
It was a reasonable ask. Behr figured they probably wouldn’t go for it, but the least it should have garnered was a respectful “No can do” and maybe a hint about how to get an appointment.
Instead, upon seeing the card, one meat shield looked to the other, and it got physical. Whether they’d wanted to give him the bum’s rush or a full beat down, he had no idea, but he was surprised his announcement was what set them off. And behind the aggression Behr had seen something else he hadn’t expected in the men—fear.
What did they, or their client, have to fear from a pro in the field?
Behr was flipping this around in his mind, glad to be leaving Indy Flats under his own steam, when Decker called.
“So that thing you asked for,” Decker said, “I did some file diving for you …”
It was a big favor that Behr had asked, and when it came to favors, he vastly preferred doing them to claiming them, especially the first one. But after their run, Decker had offered and the piece of information was fairly impossible for him to get any other way, so he’d been unable to resist. Now Behr was impressed not only at the speed with which Decker had come through but that he’d bothered at all. That was a rarity these days. He closed the car door behind him and took out a pen.
“Go.”
“Very little traffic left that garage around the time of the incident,” Decker said. “I got an Indiana license plate for you: IXN three sixty-two.”
Behr wrote it down.
“Car is an aqua blue metallic 2008 Impala. Entered at seven thirty.”
“Stolen?”
“Doesn’t seem so.”
“Plate reported stolen?”
“Nope. Registered to a Campos, José.”
“That’s gotta be bogus,” Behr said.
“Probably.”
“Here, write it down,” Decker said, and gave Behr a street address on Keller, in an untrendy, predominantly Latin part of town.
“Did you get this from the security footage?” Behr wondered. “Any image of the driver?”
“Nah, didn’t get a look at that. If footage exists, it’s under lock and key,” Decker said. “This was off a log.”
“So someone logged information from a security tape?” Behr pressed.
“Don’t know. The entry gate that dispenses tickets records the plates of the cars going in. Then there was a note in the file that said: ‘matches car leaving at time of incident.’ Pretty sure it’s your guy though,” Decker said, “unless he left on foot, which seems unlikely.”
“Yeah. Probably dumped or sold the car by now.”
“Yep, someone got himself a great deal on an aqua metallic Impala …” Decker said. “Anyway, I figured that Keller Street addy was a bogey too, so I did a utilities check.” Behr had a momentary surge of envy for the access the police had and how much more difficult it was for him to track down the same information. “There was a secondary account established—one of those triple-play deals of phone, cable, and Internet—and it had the Keller Street billing address on it too, but a service call was listed a month back to seventeen oh one Wilmette Ave. I’m guessing that if either of ’em even are, that’s gotta be the live one.”
“You’re damn good,” Behr said, writing it down. “Can I feed you the rest of my casework?”
“Hey, it serves ’em right for bringing me back on desk duty and not plunking me right back on the street. You should see the shit I’m working—cleaning up paperwork on DWIs and stolen Girl Scout cookies.”
“Try not to have too much fun.”
“Well, if there’s not anything else, I should probably get back to pretending I work for the city,” Decker said.
“Look, there’s one more thing,” Behr began, awash in gratitude and guilt all at once. “Something I did, I’d feel better if I just told you … I Googled you. And I’m sorry.”
There was silence on the line before Decker answered.
“I ran you too. So I’m also sorry,” he said.
Behr knew it meant Decker had learned about his time on the force, the arrests he’d made, the way he was sent off, and how his son had died by accidental gunshot.
“I might’ve done a little more than just Google,” Behr added.
“Yeah,” Decker said, “so did I.”
And that was the end of it.